


Falling into Place

by solarphoenix



Category: Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010)
Genre: M/M, mushy confessions of love, scott is awkward and wallace is pining, this is all due to the fact that i rewatched the movie recently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27526348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarphoenix/pseuds/solarphoenix
Summary: Scott's decided that it's time to move out and into a place of his own because he's sure that Wallace probably wants him out of his hair, but the night before he leaves, emotions make things complicated.
Relationships: Scott Pilgrim/Wallace Wells
Comments: 14
Kudos: 107





	Falling into Place

It’s 2 AM. 

It’s 2 AM or it’s close to it, because the television is blaring a late-night CTV special, and it’s been going on for about two episodes, which tells Scott that it’s been about thirty minutes since he’s last checked the clock… He remembers leaning over the counter to squint at the microwave clock to check the time and remembers it being about 1:45 or something… so, by that logic...

It has to be after 2 AM.

Scott blinks and his eyes burn. The lighting in this dilapidated one-bedroom apartment-- one room total, actually, he’s being generous-- is dim but even the faded jaundiced glow of the lamp burns his eyes. He’s currently working on getting his things ready to move them out by folding his clothes and packing them into cardboard boxes and he knows he should have done this hours ago, but Scott Pilgrim is notoriously good at two things: overthinking and procrastinating.

He takes a sip of his Coke. Staying up so late isn’t that much of a problem, but it’s a burden when he needs to spend his nights doing work. There aren’t a lot of his things to pack into boxes, as the majority of the stuff in here is Wallace’s, but he’s also terrible at folding clothes and his mind is preoccupied. 

It’s about time for him to move into a place of his own. Given, it’s not going to be a nice place. As he recalls from his leasing tour, the floors are warped, the walls are damp, and every time the air kicks on it shakes the building, but… he’s 25 years old and he has a job at the dual-purpose record store on Lincoln Street, and Sex Bobomb has made enough pocket change from gigs that he thinks he can get by if he eats instant noodles for dinner four times a week. 

Wallace is great. He’s more than great, as great as a bastard can be, anyways, but it’s been three years now and Scott has the feeling that he’s getting in the way. Ever since he and Ramona split four months ago, his life’s been feeling like an endless cycle of moping, wallowing, working, wallowing while working, and moping some more. Sometimes that feels like all he’s capable of doing, being a roadblock in everyone else’s life. 

Scott pushes a hand over his hair. His eyelids feel tight over his eyes like someone’s stuffed a wad of cotton behind them, and he grabs another one of his tee shirts, folding it sloppily before setting it into a box. He thinks that Wallace is supportive about him moving out of here tomorrow. He’s even offered to help him move his things in with him and take a few boxes on the bus.

Wallace, just like everyone else, is probably looking forward to pushing the eject button on Scott Pilgrim. 

He presses his mouth into a thin line and grabs a pair of his jeans, maneuvering them into a somewhat misshapen origami jean massacre before stuffing them into a box and pressing them down with his palms. It’s got to be after two now, and he’s hungry. He’s been getting his things cleaned up and procrastinating for so long that he just now remembers dinner.

Scott stands up and walks into the kitchen, the tiled floor cool against his bare feet. Surely Wallace isn’t going to care if he takes a Hot Pocket. Wallace isn’t here anyways, and Scott doesn’t think he’ll be back until the morning, or at least for a few hours. There’s no way that he’ll have to risk a shoe flying at his head for eating some of Wallace’s food. Scott unwraps one of the Hot Pockets and sets it in its tray before putting that on a napkin and placing it in the microwave. He yawns and rubs his eyes, hearing one of them creak as he presses his knuckle into the corner. His head feels muggy with sleep and there’s a heaviness in his chest that he’s not quite able to place.

He listens to the microwave whir as it heats up his food and closes his eyes for a moment, propping his fist against his cheek. He almost dozes off for a moment before there’s a sound at the door.

Scott freezes.

He _knew_ that it was a stupid idea to watch a horror movie while packing his things. He stares at the deadbolt as it rattles and isn’t sure if he wants to duck or grab a knife when the door swings open, but it’s just Wallace in his knee-length black coat, shoulders dusted in snow. He curses as he tracks some snow into the apartment with him and slings his bag off of his shoulder. Scott thinks back to the Hot Pocket in the microwave and freezes. An intruder might have been better. At least an intruder would have thought twice about murdering him.

“Hey-yy, guy.” Wallace draws out his greeting as he shimmies off his coat, tossing it haphazardly to a pile in the corner of the room. His keys follow with a soft rattling sound. “Look at _you_. What are you doing up so late? Usually I have to kick your butt out of the middle of the bed.”

“Oh, uh… Hey…” Scott steals a glance over his shoulder as the microwave beeps. “I’m just… getting my stuff all squirreled away. It’s so much work. I’m just glad that the new place is furnished…” He rubs at the top of his head. “You’re home early.”

“I know,” Wallace grouses, “And I’m not even _drunk_. Can you believe that?” He shakes his head and walks into the kitchen. There’s still a light dusting of snow in his hair. It has to be coming down hard out there, but that’s expected for Toronto in the wintertime. Wallace sticks his head into the fridge and looks through it. There’s not much in there-- neither one of them has been grocery shopping in a while. Scott thinks that it’s his turn to go to Loblaws but… now he supposes that Wallace is going to be doing that all by himself.

Scott feels an unexpected pang in his chest. He and Wallace haven’t been exactly friends, but they haven’t not been friends. He thinks that he’s actually going to miss his and Wallace’s late-night grocery store runs, even though Wallace spends too much time going through every single aisle and makes Scott put back the one pound bags of gummy bears before they make it into the cart. He remembers one evening when they were both feeling exceptionally silly and Wallace pushed Scott in the cart down the frozen food aisle. 

“Yeah… I can’t, actually.” Scott waits for Wallace to finish up in the fridge before he grabs his food from the microwave. He’s expecting to be berated -- Wallace always yells at him for eating his leftovers, even though Wallace is the one who leaves them in the fridge for days at a time. Scott grabs a fork from the silverware drawer and sets his plate on the counter as Wallace sits across from him, a wine cooler and a carton of cold Chinese seeming to be his choice of food. Wallace has been drinking a lot recently. Scott can’t exactly remember seeing Wallace the past few weeks without a drink in his hand.

A pang of the forbidden e-n-v-y word knots itself in the pit of Scott’s stomach, the Hot Pocket burning his tongue as he stuffs a bite into his mouth. Wallace seems so assured with what he wants and who he is all the time. Sometimes Scott can’t figure out who he is on a day-to-day basis. 

He takes another bite of his food. “I stole a Hot Pocket.” He mutters with a full mouth, as Wallace looks up at him and raises an accusatory eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I know they’re yours. I was just so hungry, y’know? But, hey, when I leave tomorrow, I’ll buy you an extra box if you help me with my groceries.”

Wallace seems to contemplate that. Scott watches him lift his gaze to the ceiling as though in thought. “Hm. Okay. I’ll help you put your groceries away, but _only_ if you buy me some more booze, too. ‘Kay? Does that sound like a deal to you?” Wallace shovels some lo mein into his mouth. For some reason, Wallace seems adamant about solely eating leftover Chinese food cold. “Okay…” Scott begins, but he hesitates, “As long as it’s not the expensive kind.”

“Dude.” Wallace stares at him. “If I’m going to be busting my ass by carrying your boxes up all of those stairs, the stuff you buy me’d better cost more than ten dollars.” He points an accusatory fork between Scott’s eyebrows. “Besides. You owe me for that Hot Pocket.”

“You don’t even _like_ the plain cheese ones, Wallace, you told me you bought them by mistake.” Scott whines, and walks out of the kitchen to grab his Coke, taking a sip as Wallace scrolls through texts on his phone. 

“You’re right. I don’t. But you still owe me for a day of back-breaking labor.” Wallace shrugs and goes back to his food. Scott pokes at his Hot Pocket for a moment, watching some of the steam from it curl into the air. There’s a moment of silence between them filled by a recording of staged laughter on the television. Scott listens to the prongs of Wallace’s fork scraping the sides of the rice carton before Wallace sighs, resting his palms on the counter. Scott looks down at Wallace’s blunt nails, relieved and yet somewhat disappointed that Wallace is letting him go so easily. 

“So, Scotty.” Wallace presses his lips together and taps his fork against the counter. “Are you ready to move into your new place? It’s probably going to be nice having an actual _view_ outside your bedroom window.” 

“Uh.” The thing is, Scott isn’t sure about that. “It’s going to sort of suck doing all of the cleaning by myself. And… I guess it stinks that the bus stop is further away now. But… Yeah, I guess. It’s... nice.” He twirls a stray strand of mozzarella around his fork. “I guess you’re probably excited to get me out of your hair, huh? You always talked about having the place to yourself.”

Wallace smiles slightly with pursed lips. For some reason, he doesn’t seem too much like himself. Part of Scott, the part of him that knows how to read a room and a situation, notices for not the first time how dejected Wallace seems. He wonders if Wallace is going through another breakup period, and he wonders how that’s possible if Wallace hasn’t been seeing anybody recently. There’s a lot about Wallace Wells that Scott doesn’t know, though. “Hey, that’s exciting for you, Scott. New place, new life, new friends…” Wallace trails off as he closes the lid of his takeout. “You aren’t going to have to take your laundry to the laundromat anymore. I might have to swing by and wash my clothes there.”

Scott shrugs. “Yeah, well… I’ll still have to go to the basement to wash my clothes, but… it comes with the unit so I’m not… well. I guess I’m still paying for it, but… I’m excited, I guess… I’ve… never had my own place before.”

“Hm. Well, tomorrow, you will. Assuming that this blizzard warning clears up...” Wallace makes a face as he turns his gaze out of the apartment’s singular window. “It’s snowing buckets out there. Hey, if that keeps happening tomorrow, we might need to delay your moving day.” Wallace swings his legs off of the barstool and takes his food over to the garbage, but hesitates before he throws it away. “Hey, you want this too? This is your one free pass to eat my stuff. I’m just not feeling Chinese food tonight, it’s majorly upsetting my stomach.” 

Maybe that’s why Wallace’s face looks so pinched. Scott can’t imagine why Wallace might be down-- it’s not like him to come back early from the bar. But an upset stomach makes more sense... “No thanks. I’m… I’m good. I think I have some… um... ginger ale in the fridge if you want some, though.” 

“Nah.” Wallace drops the takeout into the garbage can. “But I _am_ going to take a shower and get to bed. I suggest that _yo_ u, my friend, do the same. I don’t want you sleeping in until eleven and I want to get this move-in stuff done with. I have more important things to do, so, chop-chop. Finish packing.” Scott watches as Wallace strides into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him in a hurry. There’s a moment of quiet before the familiar high pitched noise of the shower kicking on makes its way through the door. Scott finishes off his Hot Pocket. Something feels off about tonight and he can’t quite put his finger on it. 

Maybe he does need sleep.

He rinses his plate in the sink, scraping off as much of the burnt-on cheese as possible before he goes back to his clothes. He puffs out his cheeks, fiddling with a tear in the side of one of the boxes and wonders if Wallace has any tape. He’s already had one box tear on him tonight and isn’t sure that he has any more boxes to spare, so he stands up and wanders the perimeter of apartment 27, but there’s no tape to be found.

“Ugh… Dammit…” Scott whines to himself, walking into the kitchen and rummaging through drawers. He finds zip-ties, air fresheners, an old pair of scissors, a newer pair of scissors, and plenty of clothespins, but the only kind of tape that they have is a small roll of gift-wrapping tape that doesn’t look like it’ll do the job. Scott tosses it back into the drawer. “Wallace? Do we have any tape? The heavy duty kind, though, not the--” He trails off and presses his ear to the door. There’s another sound that he can hear that isn’t the squealing of the water out of the shower head and it isn’t a sound Scott recalls hearing in their apartment at all in the past three years. It’s a sound that makes him insanely uncomfortable and feel insanely, utterly useless and shell-shocked: Wallace is crying.

The thing is, though, Wallace isn’t crying loudly. It’s the sort of restrained, suppressed kind that makes Scott think of all the times he’s messed up with girlfriends in the past. He hates it when people cry, it always kicks in a flight response that makes him want to flee the scene immediately. Something about this, though, puts a thorn in the middle of his sternum. Scott’s seen Wallace go through breakups and fights before but Wallace always takes it with a quick-witted jab and a trip to the bar and always seems to be fine the next day. As far as Scott knows, Wallace doesn’t cry and he’s _never_ cried in front of him. Scott pulls his ear back from the door as he listens to Wallace’s soft, gasping breaths. Wallace probably thinks the sound of the shower hides it, and suddenly, Scott feels like he’s witnessing something that he shouldn’t be. He decides to use the roll of Scotch Tape from the kitchen instead, wrapping the tape around the tear in the box until it seems to be stable enough. 

He sits back on his heels, and looks at the door, and then looks at the box again. It’s close to three in the morning now, and suddenly, he feels too wired to sleep. Scott pushes the boxes up against the wall and sits down on the side of the bed. It’s useless to check his phone, there’s no one that texts him anyways, so he tosses it aside before laying on his back, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

In the bathroom, Scott hears the water shut off and listens to the sound of Wallace drying off and combing through his hair. He can’t hear Wallace crying anymore and he’s thankful for it, but he can’t help but stare as Wallace steps out of the bathroom in his navy boxers and monogrammed collared sleep shirt. Scott watches the backs of Wallace’s ankles as Wallace pads barefooted into the kitchen and gets a glass of water. He swallows, hard, and rolls on his back, unsure if Wallace will throw something at him if he tries to say anything.

He chews at the inside of his lip and probes a piece of loose skin with his tongue. He likes to think that he knows a lot about Wallace from living with him for a few years, but recently, Wallace feels like an enigma. Scott rests a hand on his chest, drumming his fingers against his sternum as Wallace sets his cup in the sink. When he turns to walk over to bed Scott can see that Wallace is still puff-eyed and somber, and he suddenly has a feeling that it wasn’t Wallace’s stomach bothering him after all.

Scott thinks that he’s pretty shitty at comforting people. In fact, usually, when he tries to comfort people he ends up making it worse, but as Wallace walks over him to get to his side of the bed, he knows that it would be stupid to say nothing. Wallace might be self-centered and gossip-y, but Scott can think of plenty of times where Wallace was there for him. 

Come to think of it, he can’t think of a time when Wallace let Scott be there for him at all. For as much as Wallace likes to talk, he’s mysterious. 

Scott feels his pulse hammer in his jugular for a moment as Wallace lays down with his back to him. The television still murmurs in the background and the yellow glow of the lamp illuminates the room, but something tells him that Wallace isn’t sleeping, or will not be sleeping soon.

“So… uh… how’s your stomach…?” Scott asks, as Wallace turns to look at him. 

“What?” Wallace’s expression is pointedly disinterested. “Oh. Fine. I must have eaten something bad. I’m as cool as a cucumber now, though.”

Wallace turns away from him again and Scott draws up one of his legs. He’s still yet to shower and he’s still yet to get clean, but… This is more important. He’s just lost for what to do. Scott might be atrocious at reading faces (his sister reminds him of that frequently) but he’s lived with Wallace for years, and whoever this Wallace is, the solemn, sober, silent one, doesn’t click with the image of him Scott has in his mind. Scott tears at the skin of his inner cheek with his molars for a moment and decides to take a chance. 

“Hey, man?” Scott asks, and Wallace makes a noncommittal grunt. “You know you can… I don’t know… talk to me, right?”

“Talk to you about what? Intestinal distress?” Wallace scoffs. “No thanks. I’m good.”

Scott takes a slow breath in. Emotions are so complicated, and right now, Wallace’s are surrounding him like a dark cloud. He looks over and sees Wallace’s pale brown eyes fixated on the ceiling above. 

“No, that’s…” Scott shakes his head. “No, ew, gross, no. Actually… I just…” He puffs out his cheeks and turns to face Wallace, expecting either to be pushed off the bed or smacked with a pillow. He composes himself as Wallace raises an eyebrow. “I heard you crying in the shower.”

Wallace’s eyebrow arches even higher, and Scott braces himself for a rebuttal, “Which, I mean, hey, it’s fine, it’s cool, and I’m not… judging you or anything, seriously, I just… I was going to ask you a question and then I heard you, and…” He trails off. Wallace is still looking at him, his expression unreadable, and then he huffs and looks away. 

“Crying? With this flawless complexion? Dude. I honestly don’t know how you could even assume that.” Wallace rolls his eyes back to the ceiling but there’s a furrow to his brows and his lips are pursed in a tight line. Even from here, Scott can see the red lines mapping the whites of Wallace’s eyes like the delicate branches of a tree. “You never were the brightest, though.”

“I’m not coming after you or anything,” Scott says, propping himself up on his elbow. “And I wasn’t… you know, stalking you or anything,” he adds, hurriedly, as Wallace opens his mouth. “I’m just saying… you know, if you aren’t… okay, or anything… you can talk about it to me.”

Wallace makes a soft gagging sound. “Ugh. What is this, a sleepover now? Are we gonna braid each other’s hair, too?”

Scott hesitates. “We do sort of sleep in the same bed…” 

He watches as Wallace fixates him in a disappointed stare, and Scott adds, “Your hair is probably too short to braid.”

Wallace sits up and groans, pushing his hands over his eyes. “Oh, my god. Will you stop? I’m fine, everything is fine.” He drops a pillow onto Scott’s face. “If you don’t shut up I’m going to sleep in the bathtub tonight, I swear, I will.”

When Scott peels the pillow off of his face he looks over and sees that Wallace is still sitting there, knees slightly drawn and his arms wrapped around them. He’s tucked like an inconsoluate pillbug, the hunch of his shoulders an unwelcoming line. Scott feels, suddenly, incredibly shut out as Wallace’s face falls. It scares him-- and here he was thinking that nothing got underneath Wallace’s skin but there’s an expression on Wallace’s face that Scott can’t place.

He frowns and sits up as Wallace stares at the television with a vacant expression, his jaw set in a hard line. “Do--”

“Shut it, Scott.” Wallace doesn’t move from his spot. “I’m not in the mood, okay? This is your last… your last night here. Why don’t we not fight like an old married couple?” 

“Married? We’re not--”

It’s a simple statement, but Scott notices the flash in Wallace’s eyes before it’s too late. Wallace throws up his hands in exasperated defeat. “I know, Scott, I know, I know we aren’t married! I know you’re straighter than a ruler, trust me. It’s just a stupid expression, so just… shut up. Shut your mouth, too, you look like... a blowfish or something when you do that. It’s really not a good look for you.” 

Scott does shut his mouth. He wonders how Wallace knows that his mouth is open when he’s not looking at him. When he looks at Wallace again, Wallace’s forehead is pressed to his kneecaps.

“I’m sorry,” Scott says, even though he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for. “I didn’t mean to --”

“That’s your problem.” Wallace mutters into his knees. His voice is muffled but the anger in his voice is unmistakable. “You don’t _mean_ to do anything. None of this is your fault.” 

Confusion pools in Scott’s head and muddles his mind. He doesn’t know why they’re arguing and he doesn’t know why Wallace is so upset. This is one of the worst things about relationships, he decides, the needless bickering, but then it occurs to him that he and Wallace aren’t dating so he has no idea why they’re acting like they are. “I’m… sorry…?” Part of him wants to reach out and touch Wallace’s shoulder, but before his palm can land on Wallace’s shoulder blade, he hesitates. Wallace already seems deflated, like he’s a balloon that’s been slowly left to leak.

“It’s not your fault.” Wallace lifts his head only to rest his chin on one of his knees. His arms, still stubbornly wrapped around his own legs, don’t show any sign of loosening. Even though Wallace isn’t looking at him, Scott still sees the shimmer to Wallace’s eyes that indicates held-back tears. A strip of damp, black hair falls over Wallace’s forehead as he shakes his head. He’s silent for a while as Scott stares at him. He feels like he has to do _something_ , but he’s not sure what. Instead, he sits and hopes that his silence is enough for Wallace to keep talking. Wallace pulls in a soft, shaking breath, and reaches down to pluck at a loose thread in the green plaid bedspread as a pained, bitter smile spreads across his face. “It’s not. It’s my fault for letting you live here for three years and letting you sleep in my bed when it was…” He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. “...when it was inevitable that I would end up falling in love with you. You know how much it hurts to love someone who’ll never love you back, don’t you? It’s... the world’s biggest sucker punch to the balls.”

Scott suddenly feels as though the floor has opened up and the bed is starting to fall down into a chasm of questionable depth. In his mind, he’s flailing and screaming as he falls towards what might be inevitable doom.

Wallace’s eyes, which he can see through his peripherals, slowly pull Scott back to reality. He thinks that Wallace must not be meaning to stare at him, because as soon as Scott looks away, Wallace’s gaze finds the wall across from the foot of the bed in a way that’s so calculated that Scott wonders how he’s been missing it all these years. “Whatever that means, right?” Wallace asks, a soft, depreciating laugh slipping past his lips. It occurs to Scott that Wallace might just be as exhausted as he is, with his insomnia-bruised eyes and sallow pallor to his skin. Perhaps even more. A delicate spider-webbing of veins runs through the soft skin beneath his eyes.

It’s all enough to make Scott feel incredibly shitty.

All of Wallace’s quips and jabs at their living situation slowly come to Scott’s mind. He’s always believed that they were thrown his way to make fun of him. And the disinterest Wallace has expressed numerous times for all of Scott’s relationships… could that have been due to jealousy? He sighs through his nose as Wallace pointedly avoids making eye contact.

“You love me?”

“Do you really want me to spell it out for you?” Wallace pulls himself to his feet, and the mattress shifts slightly as he steps off of the bed. Scott stays where he is but this time, lifts his gaze to Wallace’s face as Wallace starts to pace. “Why do you think I was home so early, Scott? Huh?”

Scott blinks, feeling oblivious enough that guilt begins to press down on his chest. 

“Because you… were bored…?”

Wallace’s laugh is more of a dry bark. “Motherfu-- Scott. You… clueless, brainless, _beautiful_ idiot.” He shakes his head as he walks away, disappearing behind the counter to pour himself a drink. “No. I came home because some stupid part of me hoped that if I came home the night before you were supposed to move away, maybe, just maybe, I could… convince you to stay here.” Wallace takes a sip of his drink and pulls a face. “I’ve known you since college, Scott. And I don’t think I was ever very subtle.” 

Scott thinks back to the numerous occasions he’s hauled Wallace back from bars or clubs. The way Wallace used to lean his head on Scott’s shoulder as they made their way down the deserted streets was so easy to overlook then, but… 

“But… You’ve been telling me that I need to move out for years.”

Wallace sets his glass down, hard, and shakes his head. “Because-- _dammit_ , guy, why am I telling you all of this?” Scott watches as Wallace presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Do you think I really meant it? The only reason I’ve wanted you out of here at all is because sometimes it kills me to look at you.”

Scott watches Wallace’s eyes tear themselves away from him to settle on the counter, and the pang of guilt in the pit of his chest twists itself tighter, and feels like a rubber band that’s about to snap. Wallace’s expression is so pained, so hopeful, that Scott feels like there are no solutions. “All I did,” Wallace begins, as he swirls the ice cubes around in his glass, “Was foolishly hope that I wouldn’t feel like this anymore when I looked at you, but, hey, lo and behold, right? I thought I wanted you out of here so I didn’t have to fuckin’... shred myself up when you told me about the girls you were in love with but now that you’re leaving, I just…”

There’s a moment of silence as Wallace rakes his hands through his hair. “Now I just hate to know that you’re going to leave and I’m going to have to start sleeping alone and won’t have to worry about you snatching all the food off the stove after I cook it. It’s one thing not to be with you and kiss your stupid face, Scott. It’s another to know that all of _this_ \--” he gestures between them “-- is going away tomorrow.” Wallace sighs. “The worst part about all of this is that I’m completely sober… well… mostly sober... and spilling my guts in front of you and you don’t even… want them. I mean, why would you, right? I’m being stupid.” Wallace slowly sinks to a seat in one of the crooked barstools. 

The majority of Scott feels like he’s short-circuiting. Talking to Wallace isn’t helping anything. In fact, even he can see by the defeated, slumped way that Wallace is sitting that this is conversation is only making things worse. “Just do the both of us a favor and go to sleep.”

Wallace takes a long swig of his drink and turns his back to him in the barstool, the hunch of his shoulders conveying the end of their talk, as one-sided as it may be. Scott fights to find something to say, but no words come to mind. There are too many words bouncing about in his head to make sense of; finding the right ones to string together is impossible. The knowledge that Wallace wants him to stay leaves a warm patch in his heart.

Scott’s always been used to feeling unwanted. This is a new start, but… as he watches Wallace swing one of his legs back and forth he knows he can’t leave this conversation on such a grave note.

“Hey, come on, Wallace, don’t… don’t say that.” Scott stands up and walks over, standing beside Wallace at the counter. He’s well aware of the clean smell of Wallace’s shampoo and the expensive body wash that Wallace would murder him for using. He’s also aware that he’s in a somewhat wrinkled tee shirt and a pair of holey jeans himself. Even talking to Wallace right now feels like he’s speaking to someone he’s always going to be inferior to. The knowledge that Wallace loves him feels surprisingly less like a weight he’s supposed to carry and more like an elated tingle down his spine. He just doesn’t know what to do with it yet.

He looks down as Wallace turns to face him, his eyebrow an inquisitive arch. Somehow he managed to look both hopeful and judgmental. “Look.” Scott begins, putting a hand on Wallace’s shoulder. “Honestly…? I’ve been sort of… _not_ … excited to move out either.” 

Wallace tips his head back slightly and presses his lips together, eyeing him with what now only just becomes obvious to Scott as nervousness. “I really, really feel like it’s going to be super lonely with no one living with me, and you’ve been… sort of this constant, I guess. I mean, I’ve known you for what, four years… five?” 

“And I’ve had the burden of knowing you that long as well, yes.” 

When Scott hesitates, Wallace waves one of his hands. “I’m kidding, I’m just fucking with you, guy. Keep talking.” 

“I just…” Scott continues, suddenly at a loss for words. “You’re right. We sleep in the same bed, we buy groceries together, and honestly, I think I would really, really miss you if I moved out.” 

“Aw.” Wallace tilts his head and pouts with his lower lip. “That’s so sweet of you. I would really miss me too.” But there’s a softness in Wallace’s eyes that makes Scott’s heart squirm. He thinks about the nights he spent waking up before the sunrise with Wallace pressed to his back, or an arm splayed over his chest, and how neither of them would say a word. “Hey, um… You know… you still have a vacancy here if you want to take it. That way you don’t need to cook for yourself all the time. You and I both know you’re a shitty cook.” He chuckles slightly and pats Scott’s upper arm. There’s a moment of blissful amusement between them, but then Wallace hesitates again, placing his hand over Scott’s and pulling it gently off of his own shoulder. “But… If I made things weird for you, you really don’t have to keep this up. We can just, you know, be roomies, we can get you another bed, I mean… don’t feel like you have to be sleeping next to a pining Jane Austen character, we can compromise around everything.” 

“A pining who?”

Wallace waves him off. “Nevermind, nevermind. Just… are we cool?”

Scott hesitates. His brain feels as though it’s gone on the fritz again. “You know, Wallace,” he begins, “Just because I haven’t dated a guy before doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be opposed to it. I mean… We already sleep next to each other, and I’ve thought about it before. Kissing you, I mean.”

Wallace’s eyes widen and he leans back against the barstool. “You’re throwing heavy implications at me, here, Scott.”

“No, no, I mean it.” Scott wets his lips with his tongue and notices how Wallace’s eyes follow the movement. “I just… I thought about it, and I think… It would be fine. With you.”

“...You’re not fucking with me, are you…?”

“What? No, no-- I’m not, I’m really, really not, I promise.” Scott shakes his head. “I know I suck at this stuff but I’m not an asshole. Well, sometimes I’m an asshole-- I don’t mean to be, I know I suck at words--”

“Hey, Scott?”

Scott trails off, his breath catching in his throat. Wallace is staring at him again with an unrecognizable expression again, and for a moment, he worries that he’s about to be slapped upside the head, but instead, all Wallace does is stand up and press his palm to the back of his neck. “...Yeah?” The room suddenly feels like it’s spinning, and he does everything he can to keep himself steady. The last thing he needs is to careen over and split his head open on the countertop.

“Shut up.” 

Wallace pulls Scott closer by one of his belt loops and leans forward, he leans up, pressing his lips against Scott’s in a gesture that’s almost tender, almost sweet. When he pulls away, Scott’s all too aware that his breath is failing him. Momentarily, he wonders if he has asthma, because breathing feels all too impossible. Wallace’s thumb rubs gently over the top notch in his spine, and his eyes are lidded in a way that can only be described as blissful. “Are you still on the fence about this…? Because I can definitely not do that again.” 

“No, no.” Scott says, as Wallace looks up at him hesitantly, “I mean, no. I’m not on the fence about it. I mean… _yes_ , let’s do that again.”

He settles his hands on Wallace’s waist, prays that he isn’t a terrible kisser like he used to be, and pulls him closer. Wallace’s hand settles itself in his hair and suddenly, Scott is well aware that it’s been a long time since anyone’s kissed him like this before. He feels the press of Wallace’s hand into the small of his back and suddenly his knees feel like they’re made of gelatin. They’re kissing in the kitchen and everything feels as though it slowly falls into place. Wallace pulls back slightly, his nose brushing against his own. “That was better than I thought it was going to be,” Wallace says, and Scott scoffs slightly against Wallace’s mouth.

“Should... I be offended…?”

“What? No, no.” Wallace shakes his head, moving the hand in Scott’s hair to his shoulder. “I just mean… This wasn’t how I thought tonight was going to go. I like it better this way. For the record.” Scott gives his waist a gentle squeeze. He likes kissing Wallace, even with the taste of Chinese leftovers and toothpaste and vodka on his lips. He also likes that Wallace leans up and presses another kiss to his lips, the hand on Scott’s back sliding upwards towards his shoulder blades. Scott takes that as a universal sign to slip his fingers under Wallace’s soft, monogrammed sleepshirt, and finds that the skin beneath it is even softer still. In spite of himself, he smiles as Wallace trails his hand up and down his spine. “Just, you know, us. I’m glad. I’m glad that you want to stay. In case this hasn’t shown that for you.”

“Honestly, dude? So am I.”

“I’m sure you are, you little Hot Pocket mooch. You’re still not off the hook for eating one of mine. When we go grocery shopping, you’re buying me some more. I’ll be there to see to it personally that you get the right kind this time.” Wallace runs his hand through Scott’s hair, which tells him that Wallace isn’t upset by that as his words imply. Scott closes his eyes as Wallace peppers his neck and jaw with a litany of soft kisses. This is new, it’s very new, but he’s not complaining about any of this as Wallace gently bites at his lower lip. “This isn’t your chance to eat all of our groceries.” 

“C’mon, Wallace, I’ve never done that.” 

Wallace pulls back and stares at him with an expression of contempt. 

“Seriously! I know I ate your frozen dinner once but that’s because you bought the same kind that I usually do, and--”

He closes his mouth as Wallace silences him with another kiss. Sparks dance behind his vision when he shuts his eyes. The heat of Wallace’s hands spreads into his neck and down the curve of his spine. It’s only when Wallace presses his teeth into Scott’s bottom lip, overly eager, his hand slipping slightly beneath Scott’s waistband near his back that Scott draws back from him, only slightly. “Hey, uh, Wallace? I’m not… this isn’t going to be a one-night thing, okay? I’m not going to go anywhere, or whatever, so… do you think… we should get some sleep?”

Wallace sighs, and drops back to the soles of his feet. Scott himself isn’t particularly tall, but he has two inches on Wallace at least. “Yeah, okay,” Wallace mutters, and Scott summons every ounce of courage that he has in his body to lean in and press a kiss to Wallace’s neck that has Wallace humming contentedly. “Yeah.”

“You aren’t actually going to sleep in the bathtub, are you?”

“ _Fuck_ , no. Do you think that I would intentionally murder my back like that?” Wallace shakes his head and pulls away, and Scott finds himself missing Wallace’s warmth immediately. It’s cold in their apartment, and Scott hopes that Wallace will let Scott curl up next to him. Wallace gives Scott’s butt a little tap as he walks by. “C’mon, dork. Let’s get to sleep.”

Wallace slides beneath the covers, leaving Scott to turn off the television and the lights. Scott slides in behind Wallace after stripping off his jeans and wraps an arm around his waist. They fold into each other comfortably, Scott’s chest flush against Wallace’s back. He waits for Wallace to make any sort of objection but instead, Wallace hums in approval. Even in the darkness of their apartment, the streetlight outside casts a dim glow over the back of Wallace’s head. Scott can see that now, he’s relaxing. The sight makes him feel unnecessarily giddy.

“Hey, Wallace?” He tries. Wallace shifts slightly in his arms, pulling Scott’s hand around him as though covering himself with a blanket.

“Mhm?”

Scott hesitates for a moment. “I’m really glad that I’m staying.”

“Ugh. Don’t go all sappy on me now, guy...”

“No,” Scott continues, as Wallace cranes his neck to look at him, “I mean it. This is… I mean… this is really cool. Do you think we can make out now? Can we… can we, I don’t know, do the couple's Halloween costumes? Can I kiss you whenever I want? Can we--”

Wallace yawns, giving Scott’s hand a light pat. “Of course. Now go to sleep.” Scott feels Wallace settle in, wriggling his shoulders to gently press them to Scott's chest. “Wallace is sleepy. And if Scott doesn’t shut up Wallace is going to throw a pillow at him, so shhhh...” 

Scott swallows, hard, and experimentally presses his nose to the nape of Wallace’s neck. It’s warm, and smells familiar, the same shampoo he’s been smelling before falling asleep for years. He feels Wallace entangle their legs together and experimentally kisses at the top protuberance of Wallace’s spine. His eyes are closed for a moment before he hesitates.

“Hey, Wallace?” There’s a rustling sound as Wallace rolls over to face him, his expression fond but exasperated. 

“Hey, Scott, this is Wallace, do you remember how a few minutes ago you said that we should go to bed, and how we had to forgo a hot and steamy evening for sleep? What’s going on here?”

“I’m sorry,” Scott begins, his arm around Wallace’s waist, “I just… I wondered if this meant that you were my boyfriend and if this meant that you could make us some bacon tomorrow morning.”

Wallace’s expression softens and he reaches out, pushing some of Scott’s hair back from his face. “We can be boyfriends if that’s what you want it to be.” He tells him, before adding, “Sure, but only if you drag your lazy butt out of bed to help me.” Scott, lulled by the sudden image of himself wrapping his arms around Wallace’s waist from behind as Wallace fries bacon over the stove, smiles, and lays back down on his back, lifting an arm so that Wallace can rest his head on his chest. His arm settles around Wallace, his fingers tracing small patterns in Wallace’s hip beneath his sleepshirt. 

“Just to be clear…” He begins, as Wallace makes a fed-up sound into his sternum, “When you mean help, do you mean…”

“Scott. I don’t care if your definition of helping is cooking the bacon yourself or sitting on the counter looking pretty, okay? Just… shush, shush.” Wallace reaches up and accidentally pokes at Scott’s mouth in his blind attempt to stroke his face. “Tomorrow we’ll… make bacon, and make out, and you do not have to ask for my permission if you want to kiss me. We can take baby steps, we can… I dunno… date like we’re in high school or something until you decide you want to start other-stuff-ing together, but if we don’t sleep now I’m gonna get a headache and that’ll suck for the both of us and we’ll never get to make bacon.” Wallace presses a kiss to Scott’s chest, leaving a small wet mark on his tee shirt with an air of finality. “Goodnight, Scott.”

“Goodnight, Wallace.”

Scott settles in against the pillow, the weight of Wallace’s head against his chest, and as Wallace’s breathing deepens into the heavy, relaxed rhythm of the asleep, he can’t help but smile to himself. Everything in Scott Pilgrim’s crazy, messed up world is beginning to make sense after all.


End file.
